Inkheart
6 never asked himself if he had a heart.
He was always too busy to ask himself questions anyway. Too busy with drawing. Sketching. Painting. Creating images on paper, humming softly as he lost himself in his drawings, sketching all the images he saw before his eyes. They were all in his head, showing themselves to him and waiting impatiently before they would be drawn on paper. But to draw the images, 6 needed ink. And that was where the real problem lay.
About paper, he didn't have to worry. Paper was paper, and it stayed that way, point. It wouldn't changed shape. It wouldn't suddenly become a different colour. It stayed on the same place where he left it. It didn't say anything to him, didn't show him anything, didn't make a frightening sound: it was white, and pure, and for 6 it was the safest thing in the world. The world which was filled with the war, beasts and 1 & 8.
But ink was another story.
Ink was like water. Water that 6 once had seen in the library with the twins, when they were still with them. Crystal clear water, looking like glass and being just as cold, but feeling soft and smooth in his hands.
Ink was like blood. Blood that run trough the body of the humans, of their creator, what could leak away if a human was hurt, like a bottle with a crack in it. Red was the colour of 7's scar, which she got because of a dangerous cat-beast. Red was the colour of 1's cape.
Ink looked like all those things in 6 his eyes, but in the real world, ink wasn't like any of that. Ink was black. Black like the stripes on his body, stripes than no one else had. Black like the night who always scared the sun away and placed those funny twinkling dots in the sky. Black like the machines, killing all the humans on earth. Black like the shadows in corners of rooms, where unknown creatures were hiding and waiting for him.
Still, he felt most at ease with ink around him. Ink made it able for him to put all the images in his head were put to a hold. Ink made sure that all those confusing and busy thoughts were put on white paper. Ink made sure that they became silent, and safely put away where they couldn't harm or scare him anymore. Ink could do all that for him, and therefore, 6 loved ink.
But that didn't mean he wasn't scared of it.
Because ink had a body. Ink had a mouth. Ink had hands. Big hands with long, tin fingers and sharp nails. And when the nights came and brought 6 to sleep, ink would lay his hands on his head. He would place his long fingers over 6 his eyes and ears, so that he couldn't hear or see anything but the colour and the sound of his black captor. It would dig his nails in 6's his skull, making it unable for him to shake the hands and fingers away.
And then it would talk to him.
It would whisper the names of the images he had drawn: names he knew but didn't understand. It would ask him about the events that were going to take place, if he already told the others about them. It would tell him about things that happened in the past, and things that were going to happen in the future. But most of the time, ink told 6 about that one thing, that one special thing that started everything, and, as ink said every time, would put an end to that it all.
When ink started telling about that thing, 6 would always furiously shake his head. He didn't want to know anything about that horrible frightening thing. He didn't want ink to tell him all that! But ink wouldn't let him go: it would just dig his nails deeper in 6 his skull, would rip his arms away that tried to protect him and scream in his face, the voice high and raspy: that 6 had to tell the others about the thing, that that was his purpose, his whole reason of living and that he couldn't ignore that. He had to tell the others what he knew, he had to.
He had to.
He had to. He had to.
He had to! He had to! He had to!
HE HAD TO! HE HAD TO! HE HAD TO! HE HAD TO!
HE HAD TO! HE HAD TO! HE HAD TO! HE HAD TO! HE HAD TO!
HE HAD TO!
And then he would always wake up, screaming, fighting off the arms that tried to keep him still, while the voice of ink runs in his ears and he could still feel the touch of the sharp nails in his skull. The ink bottles would be knocked over and his drawings would lay torn up on the floor, the shreds spread out and giving him a mocking smile.
So 6 knew it was meaningless to ask himself if he had a heart. He already knew the answer.
Because the only thing that could be hiding in his chest, could be nothing more than a greedy and dark demon, living of a bottomless bottle of ink, with the only desire to spread its messages through him to the world and to colour all the white and safe paper black.